An Internal Ping-Pong Match

A poem takes time.

Less time than a story.

And less time than two stories,

Unless the first story was a long one,

and the later two were brief.

A poem takes less time to write than a novella,

unless the poem is an epic poem, but let’s be honest,

Nobody is writing epic poems these days.

A novella usually takes less time than a novel,

even though the word itself is slightly longer.


A poem takes…or does a poem give?

A poem assists.

A poem is a point guard

Spotting an open man flashing along the sideline.


We are in transition.

We are in the open floor.

We are sharing.

We are cooking.

We are preparing.

We are cautiously optimistic.

The pass hangs in the air…

An outlet

From the rest of this life.

There was not time for this poem.

No, there wasn’t.

It will not be printed in a book.

It’s existence, like that pass, will never be verified.

Like so many other poems,

So many other stories, novellas, and novels.

That no one will ever catch.

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A Beginning

There is always a beginning.

Any writer can tell you that.

There is not always an ending.

These days, there are beginnings.

There are early mornings and few pauses.

There are hours that I barely recognize after they elapse.

There are attempts at attempting and the imagining of imaginations.

There are drives back toward a home we have made and are making.

There is a never-ending string of things.

There was not time for this…this….let’s call it a poem.

But here it is:

Stolen from the tides, a poem.

And now its gone.

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Passing Time, Volume 311

Monday is a done day.

Tuesday will be finished before the Finnish find out.

Wednesday awaits in the clouds.

Thursday wonders when it will be taken seriously.

Friday invokes the divine.

Each day another ripple toward the middle of nowhere.

The days pass without notice until the night begins.

A smile in the bark of the tree.

A tear in the skies.

A question that went unasked.

An absence.

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